To live, embrace the neck melts into noose
To die, slow sauce traverses present goose
Bill folds thin fi’e flecking dire embers
Soap queen gags this taste, Marilyn Ch’mbers
Syntax slumming thrumming, meets combustion
Gas lay rising, fumes of dyin’ fustian
Holdout absent letters, turn redux
Wait and drink Lethe’s mug will wear a tux
Lobes probe further heights
Emolument
But at unknown escarpment
The Guardian‘s James Buchan has asked the question, in all seriousness, “Is there any purpose in translating poetry?” Which is akin to asking the following questions:
(In case it wasn’t clear, the answer to all these questions is a resounding YES!)
(via Bookninja)
And here’s a report of the evening from Richard Grayson. As Mr. Grayson notes, someone did indeed leave in a huff midway through the reading. Many thanks to Levi Asher for inviting me.
(Mad props to Caryn)
A gentleman by the name of Levi Asher has recruited me to read a poem on Thursday. Said reading involves a bongo drum and assorted experimental hijinks. I’m not sure how I got involved in this exactly. I think I said yes and Mr. Asher, knowing that I was a man of my word, ran with the ball faster than Herschel Walker ever did. Let this be a lesson to all, or perhaps this is merely a warning to me.
Nevertheless, I will have more details soon, but it goes down this Thursday. At 8:00 PM. Somewhere. More specifics to come.
I somehow missed this article on Sunday, but the Philly Inquirer has a nice overview of poetry podcasts.